WHEN I HEARD THE NEWS THAT Giorgio Armani had passed, my heart dropped. A legend. An icon. A man whose name alone could silence a room. And instantly, I was transported back in time: a teenage girl from Inglewood, California, backstage at my very first Armani show in Milan, Italy, trying to hold it together while my knees knocked like stilettos on marble.
Booking that show was one of those pinch-me moments. Armani was not just a brand, it was practically a verb. You didn’t wear Armani—you Armani-ed. And suddenly, there I was, part of that magic. I’ll never forget slipping into those clothes: earth-tone suits... some supple, some flowy, some with the most strategic forms of unstructured structure. And on the runway, they became poetry.
What I loved most…